


Without Condition

by thelittleboffin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Abusive Victor, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Bisexuality, Boarding School, Boarding School AU, Domestic Violence, Emotional Sherlock, Gay, Jealous John, John Saves The Day, John Watson Saves Sherlock Holmes, John Watson is a Saint, John shows Sherlock what love is, Johnlock - Freeform, Kisses, M/M, Protective John Watson, Rugby John, School, Sherlock Whump, Teen Boys, Teenlock, Teenlock AU, Viclock, Victor is an abusive partner both emotionally and physically send him away, balletlock, because he’s perfect, gay boys, minor non-con, rugby player John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 21:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14860812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittleboffin/pseuds/thelittleboffin
Summary: “Then perhaps that’s a sign that you should cut down on your collection,” Sherlock spat, venomously, utterly done with the day and not prepared to allow some pretty boy to ruin it even further.He turned to leave with those last few words on his tongue, only to stop and stare when the stranger on the floor finished his re-packing and stood up to face Sherlock — grinning.“Have you conked your head, mate?” The new boy laughed, gentle and hearty, an entirely warm, melodious sound, “You can never have enough vinyl.”





	1. Vinyl

_Learn to love without condition, talk without bad intention, give without any reason, and care for people without any expectation_. 

 

* * *

  

Sherlock gasped with pleasure as he was rammed up against the book shelf, hands everywhere, touching him, grasping at him, lips on his throat and another body flush against his own. Fingers traveled from the back of Sherlock's neck all the way down his torso to his thighs, gripping and lifting, and he moaned as quiet as possible with all the overwhelming sensations, itching to be closer, to be bare of all clothing, but aware they were in the silent confines of a public library.

"Victor," He breathed hoasrely, his own palm holding tight to the hair of the head pressed against his neck, teeth scraping across his Adam's apple and nose nuzzling against his throat.

He let his hand roam up from Victor's hip until he felt bare skin, moving under the hem of his white button up and palming his flat, toned stomach. With a groan, Victor bit into his neck, pulling at his skin, tongue dancing, lips caressing, eyes shut and body warm with arousal. Sherlock threw his head back, bumping several books, knocking a few to the floor as he groaned loudly, unable to keep quiet while the boy before him nipped at his creamy white collarbones.

"Shut up," Victor snapped, pushing Sherlock's shoulders harder against the wooden shelf and gripping tighter to his thighs, kissing bruises along Sherlock's thin frame, and growling under his breath.

Sherlock shook his head frantically and whimpered, grasping at Victor's shoulders and biting his lip, hard enough to draw blood, "I," He began, inhaling shakily, "I can't." 

Victor huffed against his neck irritably and dropped his legs, instead moving to press himself flush against Sherlock's skinny figure, gripping tight to his hips and staring down at him, scowling, "Do you want to be found out?"

Sherlock arched a brow and quickly got his breathing under control, lifting his eyes to look back at Victor, running a weak hand through his tousled curls, "Well, I don't necessarily care."

Victor grabbed his shoulders and slammed him harder against the shelves with a snarl, the thick, pointy edges of wood digging into Sherlock's shoulder blades, "Shut the fuck up, Sher. You know the rules." 

Sherlock glanced down at his feet and rubbed at the love bite now marring his skin, nodding slowly and sighing in defeat, "Of course I do. You never cease to remind me of their existence."

"No one," Victor spat and glared at the boy in his arms with bright green eyes, the emerald hue on fire, burning with warning, "Absolutely no one can know. Got it?"

Sherlock gazed back at the boy, Victor’s ashy blonde hair messy and ruffled, the usual gelled straight strands hanging against his forehead — he looked like a wolf, snarling at Sherlock, eyes bright and threatening, growling out his commands, agreement the only answer suitable, the only response keeping you alive. With a sigh, Sherlock ducked his head and nodded, turning away and shoving Victor off, sauntering slowly over to where he’d thrown his backpack down in his earlier desire.

“Look,” Victor huffed, glancing at him as he slung the black bag over his shoulder, mask in place, unaffected and entirely blank faced, features flat and twitching without effort, “I wish it could be different but right now, I just can’t.”

“Fine,” Sherlock bobbed his head once, swallowing the knot in his throat and cursing the bitterness behind his eyes.

And then Victor smiled, and the wrinkles by his eyes crinkled, his lips pulling back, white teeth revealed beneath a pale pink, kiss-swollen mouth, expression relieved and content, the very opposite of how Sherlock was feeling. The tall artist grinned and reached for Sherlock’s waist, running his fingers along Sherlock’s hips soothingly and humming to himself, smile turning to a smirk as he arched a brow and leaned in further.

“Ballet today?”

Sherlock nodded, “Last class of the day. As usual.”

Victor let his hands wander, running along the curve of Sherlock’s arse, over the rough fabric of his black jeans, and Sherlock found himself eager to pull away, heart clenching unwillingly, mind yelling at him to _give Victor up, he’s just using you, he’s no good, sentiment has gotten the best of you, clearly._ Shut up, shut up, _shut up._

“Meet me behind the dance building when you’re done then, yeah?”

Sherlock bobbed his head once more, curls bouncing, and turned away, swallowing, heart pounding against his chest, dread blooming in his gut, his brain trying desperately to override the intricacy of his feelings — his heartfelt thoughts yelling _you love him, you love him,_ whilst his mind snapped out a sharp _you’re just his plaything._

Victor grabbed at his hand, yanking him back against his firm chest and laying a sloppy kiss to his lips, growling against Sherlock’s mouth, hands running down his torso, stroking his arms, caressing his waist.

“Victor,” Sherlock huffed, pulling back and removing his wrist from the boy’s grip, eyes darting down to the floor as he adjusted the backpack strap digging into his shoulder.

Victor hummed and moved his plush, pink lips down to Sherlock’s jaw, nipping lightly, tongue dancing against his pale skin. 

“I have class,” Sherlock pressed, eager to have a moment to breathe, a moment on his own, a moment to gather himself, back sore from the rough edges of the bookshelf, heart aching with further evidence of Victor’s obvious shame. 

“Lunch isn’t over yet,” The tall blonde chuckled, towering over Sherlock with a predatory smirk as he worked on sucking a hickey directly atop the brunette’s collarbone, growling as he pulled at Sherlock’s navy uniform, white button down and sweater vest forced aside.

“I have a long walk,” Sherlock forced out, swallowing thickly and glancing around the deserted library, berating himself for the poor excuse.

He heard Victor groan before the boy pulled off and sighed, lifting a finger to caress the sore skin he’d marked up rather thoroughly, “Fine. But I expect you to make it up to me.”

Sherlock inwardly winced, clearing his throat and bobbing his head once, firmly, before arching a brow at Victor’s smug expression, waiting expectantly for an answering remark.

“Yours,” Victor winked, backing away to gather up his own things, slinging a loose artist’s satchel around his neck, backpack following soon after, “tonight, yeah?”

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip, “I have homework.”

Victor snorted. 

“Course you do,” The blonde smirked, strolling past Sherlock and placing a soft hand on his forearm, patting it patronizingly, “We still need to work on your technique, after all.”

Sherlock frowned, taking a moment to understand just what the tall boy was hinting at, glancing over his shoulder as Victor strolled towards the end of the bookshelf, the blonde beaming brightly to himself as though he’d worked some sort of miracle in managing to somehow teach Sherlock the ways of sexual relations.

“I’m not a blushing virgin anymore, Victor,” Sherlock snapped, well aware that he’d never been with anyone else _before_ Victor Trevor, well aware he hadn’t had any practice, no one to practice on, too shy to practice on himself.

“Maybe not,” Victor shrugged, “but you still _fuck_ like one.”

And with a wink, he vanished behind the shelves, Sherlock left alone, standing still amongst the many novels surrounding him, posture rigid and stiff, heart clenching, ego bruised — and yet still, he knew, he’d let Victor into his dormitory later with open arms.

 

 

 

 

 

With a huff, John dropped the last of his boxes atop his unmade bed, the mattress white and disgustingly bare, before he turned to his mother, her eyes bright and watery, a sweep of dread coursing through John’s gut as she quickly reached out to envelop him into a tight hug.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” She squeaked, pulling back and patting him down, smoothing back his dirty-blonde hair, caressing his cheeks, puttering around like a proper mother ought to.

John let out a strained laugh and nodded, “I’ll be fine, Mum. Swear it.” He hugged her once more, planting a small kiss to her cheek before pulling away with a sigh, taking a moment to glance around his small dorm, taking in the white barren walls, the hideously large dresser, the empty form of his closet.

“ _Christ_ , I’ll be lucky if I’m moved in by the end of the semester,” John joked, shaking his head in exhaustion before turning and plopping himself down onto the bare mattress.

“Well, you didn’t have to pack your _whole_ life,” Harriet snorted, pushing her way through the door with another of John’s boxes in her arms, one he’d clearly forgotten, her hair done-up in a messy brown bun, strands cascading downwards this way and that, body heaving with physical exertion.

He let out a laugh and shook his head, “I’m going to be here for _months_ ; I need to have _some_ sort of life, you know.” He smirked as she plummeted down onto the bed beside him, mindful of the other boxes of things, panting and sighing loudly, gesturing to his room with a flick of her hand.

“You’d better add some color to these walls,” She informed him, scoffing at their blankness.

“He did bring all his posters,” John’s mother chuckled, sauntering over and patting the top of John’s shoulder comfortingly.

“Wouldn’t be John’s room without James Bond plastered across the thing,” Harry winked, smirking, and was rewarded with a slap upside the head, to which she cried out in both amusement and irritation.

John giggled, glancing over at the box that contained all his many decorations. He was, of course, excited — to make this place his own, to be independent, to make first impressions, and become someone new. Baker was a fresh start, _a new John_ , a chance to make something of his life. 

He swallowed and looked down nervously, heart hammering in his chest — he just hoped the scholarship that got him in here didn’t make anyone treat him differently. Sure, he didn’t have a father who paid for all his schooling or five luxury cars in his own personal garage or the limo that dropped him off at class, nor the butler who did his laundry — _no_ , John came from a small neighborhood, in a not so good location, with a mother who worked hard to get them by. But he was smart, and a rugby player, and somehow those two features had convinced a couple scouting officers and chucked him right into Baker Private School. 

“Oh, _John_ ,” his mother whimpered beside him, reaching over and wrapping her slender arms around his shoulders, laying a gentle hand in his hair, her body warm and soft and motherly and he felt that all too familiar pang in his chest at the thought of leaving her and his sister alone in their little house back home.

“ _Mum_ ,” John sighed, forcing a weary smile and hugging her back gently, “I really will be fine, alright?”

He lifted a hand to her back and rubbed softly — she was frailer now then before, her skin wearier and thinner to the eye, her fingers slender, her cheeks more prominent, her soft brown hair graying slightly in the most discreet of areas. Things hadn’t been easy, since John’s father died. Her heart was heavy with things to worry about: Harry’s drinking, paying off her late husband’s medical bills, juggling a job at the clinic and her artwork on the side. John hoped his going away would give her one less thing to worry about.

“And hey,” he stated, comfortingly, “I’ll be back for every holiday, yeah?”

She nodded against him and sniffled before pulling away and reaching for the pack of tissues in her purse — always prepared, she was.

“Yeah, and don’t let any of these snobs tell you who to be, understood?” Harriet snapped in addition, eyes flashing in warning, expression twisting to say, in no simple words, that she‘d better not have her brother coming home for Christmas holiday a different person. 

“Won’t happen, Harry,” John scoffed, shaking his head and beaming warily her way, hoping she got it through her head — he wouldn’t let this place change him, nor its residents. This was an opportunity of a lifetime. He was here to learn, to play rugby, and to excel. Nothing else.

“Better not,” Harry winked, expression sly and teasing now, no longer creased with muted worry, “or else I’ll burn every one of these posters.” 

John reached into the cardboard box titled _‘bed things’_ and tossed a pillow at her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock slammed the door to the dormitories as loud as he could possibly manage, glaring at the dozens of empty boxes and parents lingering about, some of the loitering figures merely butlers sent to help some rich business man’s child move in.

With a huff, and as he pushed by the newcomers, he readjusted the position his satchel hung from his shoulder and wiped at his lips with his sleeve rhythmically, checking for any blood and simply to soothe, their plump form left feeling red and swollen. Victor completed everything as though he were standing on a battleground — even kissing was something to be won, when Sherlock had been under the impression that locking lips was like dancing, teamwork and a partner all too important for satisfaction as the end result. Clearly he was wrong — Victor fought a war on his lips, _bit_ and _pulled_ and _nipped_ , and _Christ_ , sometimes it was alright but others it was far too overwhelming. 

He growled beneath his breath, unashamed of whoever heard it, and pushed forwards, kicking an empty brown box out of his path whilst lifting a hand to run his fingers through curly, unruly sweat soaked hair. Class had been _exhausting_ — the last thing he had wanted was to stand for thirty minutes sucking face behind the boy’s locker room and beside the gym’s dumpsters, hands on his already tender skin, muscles sore from dancing, and fingers running along his sheer black tights. But no matter how much Sherlock’s heart tried to tell him to leave, to get away, that Victor was pointless, his head told him Victor loved him and he should be lucky to have even an inch of what he was given, day by day.

His thoughts came to a sudden and unexpected halt when he crashed front first into some mindless figure, a yelp ensuing from whomever had gotten into his way, Sherlock’s bag weighing him down and yanking his arse all the way to the wooden floor of the boy’s dormitory corridor. He startled as a heavy, warm weight fell along with him, and within what seemed to be two seconds of time, he was flat on his back, cased vinyl records scattered around him, and face to face with dark blue, stunned eyes.

Firm exterior, _Rugby player_. Music casings, _pop culture passionate_. Scattered bits of lint and hair on red jumper, _cat at home_ — no, too short, _dog at home._ Sunken eyes, _tired._ Fingers gripping box, calloused, worn; _works hard. Maybe too hard._ New, brand new, unfamiliar face; modest clothing, inexpensive, _not exactly Private school mat —_ oh _. Scholarship._

He stared at the golden hair, specks of light blonde and dark brown hidden within a shimmer of brightness and warmth. He stared into the blue, dark and navy, hints of turquoise beneath swirls of grey in the very middle. He stared at the tan skin and creased brows, all caring and soft and gentle and — _get the fuck off!_

Sherlock groaned, his satchel wedged between the weight of a, noticeably, rather fit boy and his own unmovable figure, along with a sizable cardboard box, a slab of which looked like a Smiths record quite close to his face as it remained the last vinyl not to fall from the boy’s move-in boxes — a miracle really.

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock snapped, shoving at the boy’s shoulders, “has the average mind forgotten how to _look where they’re bloody going?”_

The boy atop him didn’t seem offended, merely apologetic and he quickly hurried to get off Sherlock’s squashed figure, lifting himself upwards and dropping the box on the floor before extending a helping hand.

Sherlock glared at it spitefully, calculating whether or not to accept the outstretched palm, before he rolled his eyes and reached out, allowing the boy to yank him to his feet. 

“Christ, I’m _so_ sorry, mate,” the boy chuckled, placing a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, a warm smile alighting his worn expression, “Couldn’t see over the top of the box.”

Sherlock scoffed, shrugging the hand off and hoisting his satchel back to its proper position on his arm, whilst the boy simply ignored his offensive attitude and knelt down to begin re-stacking his records in their crowded box-home.

“Then perhaps that’s a sign that you should cut down on your collection,” Sherlock spat, venomously, utterly done with the day and not prepared to allow some pretty boy to ruin it even further.

He turned to leave with those last few words on his tongue, only to stop and stare when the stranger on the floor finished his re-packing and stood up to face Sherlock — _grinning_.

“Have you conked your head, mate?” The new boy laughed, gentle and hearty, an entirely warm, melodious sound, “You can never have enough vinyl.”

Sherlock blinked, frowned, watched as the boy continued to smile at him, and then turned to flee, reaching into his bag and yanking out his dormitory key, gripping the handle so tight his knuckles turned white.

“Well,” the voice came again, now at the door opposite Sherlock’s and the curly-haired brunette turned to observe him, standing there, with his enormous amount of cased music, looking for all the world like he’d just won the lottery.

“Guess we’re neighbors,” The golden boy beamed his way, and Sherlock glanced from his own room back to the open door of the other across the hall, directly before his own.

He swallowed the knot in his throat, cleared it quickly, and whirled back around, facing the boy dead on, a hand on the strap of his satchel, the other still balanced atop his dorm’s door handle. 

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” He announced, a brow arched challengingly, admiring the way the boy’s face changed into a look of amused confusion. Internally, he was _plotting_ — pleased with himself. The walls in Baker’s Private School were thin, far too thin for comfort, and his last neighbor had endured a psychotic break _long_ before he made the decision to sit and listen to Sherlock play Bach any further. 

“Right,” The boy nodded, brows furrowed, “I look forward to it.” 

Sherlock blinked.

“John, by the way,” The boy — _John_ — smiled, and Sherlock glanced at the outstretched hand, the other expertly balancing the full, heavy box as he awaited Sherlock’s acceptance of the gesture and his own introduction.

“John,” Sherlock said aloud, testing the name on his tongue, before he gracefully took John’s hand, shook it once, twice, and then dropped it.

At that, he turned back around and unlocked his dormitory, kicking the door open with his foot and glancing over his shoulder at the new boy.

 “Watch where you’re bloody going,” Sherlock snapped out, “ _John_.”

 

 

 


	2. A Knack for the Classics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes was like the mystery novels John’s mother read to him as a kid — jam-packed with hidden romance and nervous interactions and action that served to take your mind through a loop of perplexity and obscurity. John was entirely prepared to purchase such a book.

Strolling into the dining hall for the first time, after kissing his mum on the cheek and waving goodbye to her and his sister — of whom shoved him with yet another warning on turning into a prude — was daunting in its nature, his eyes darting warily to the other students, of whom sat about the cafeteria, chatting with their friends, eating sloppily and chucking food at one another. It sat deep in his gut that he’d most likely be spending his first weeks amongst them alone, with his lunch tray and his bag of books, sat away and secluded, just until he could make some sort of acquaintance. 

 

As he stocked the plate atop his tray with what they had to offer in the long, spiraling line, kids anxiously awaiting their meals, he thought back to earlier, his experience in the hall, the boy who had rammed head first into his box of records, curly head and thin frame trapped beneath John once he’d thoroughly crashed to the ground. He’d been intriguing to say the least, all dark hair and bright eyes — a color John couldn’t even discern — pale skin and a slender figure, and though he’d been all but rude in the response that followed their corridor accident, John had found him insatiably charming. The instant he’d spotted that they’d coincidentally become new neighbors, his heart had soared just lightly, with both anxious excitement and nervous interest — he’d have to make up some kind of excuse to run into the boy once more. On purpose this time.

 

He collected a bottle of water, deciding to skip out on a carton of milk, coming to the conclusion that it may disagree with the baked beans and mash, and turned to leave the dining hall line, facing the entirety of the large room with a brave face, glancing at the many students giggling, rolling their eyes, shoving at one another, standing and tossing their trays carelessly. He held back a laugh, similar thoughts from his observations earlier rushing to the forefront of his mind — he’d half assumed everyone to be sat sipping tea and cutting scones with a knife and fork when he’d decided on eating dinner in the hall tonight. This was like his old secondary school — angry kids lugging food about like it was meant to fly instead of be digested.

 

He carefully made his way past the more crowded tables, sauntering quickly to the back of the cafeteria, spotting an empty table beside a group of laughing boys, their trays half empty and their school bags gathered by their feet. He sat down, placing his food on the surface before him and watching the students beside him with discreet interest; they had the hands that weren’t holding forks full of food on playing cards, a pile on the table amidst them, of which they all seemed terribly entranced by, gawking wildly at who put down what. John frowned, shook his head in amusement and made to turn away, but not before catching the eye of a dark-haired boy, a bright smile welcoming him as their gazes clashed. He quickly looked back down at his food and winced a bit to himself as the boy in his peripheral vision got to his feet, cards still held tight in his fingers as he approached John’s lonely table with ease.

 

“New boy, yeah?” The other boy stated softly, grinning down at where John slowly lifted his eyes, catching note of the entirety of the boy’s table watching him from afar.

 

“Yeah,” John uttered, forcing a weak smile, “Unfortunately.”

 

The boy standing before him chuckled and lifted a hand, gesturing towards his group of friends and beaming brightly his way, “Come on.”

 

John blinked, cleared his throat and then slowly, awkwardly, grabbed his tray and got to his feet, watching as the dark-haired boy guided him back to his table, instructing his friend to move on over to another seat at the round surface simply so John could be at his side. Suspicious of the kindness, John remained quiet, taking note of the many faces fixated on his hunched position — they were all friendly, smiling and chipper, and John was far too in awe of the fact that people could actually be nice at Private schools.

 

“I’m Greg. Greg Lestrade,” The boy beside him said, patting John on the back with a solid hand, and John took in his appearance a bit more closely. His hair had a light shimmer to it, as though it were fading to a sharp silver with every day that went by, and his eyes were a soft brown, warm, his very simple expression an aura of kindness and sincerity. John instantly liked him, whether it be the open grin or the gentle eyes, or the genuine offer to help him out, clearly aware of how shit it was to sit alone.

 

“John,” John replied, smiling softly his way, “Watson.”

 

“These are my mates, John,” Greg lifted a hand and gestured to the other boy’s at the table, their faces similarly sincere and bright, and John was hit with a wave of gratitude, that these boy’s had been the first he’d run into today, that they’d seemingly taken him under wing.

 

“That there’s Mike Stamford, president of the GSA, and calculus expert,” he pointed to a chubbier boy with round glasses and short hair, of whom bobbed his head happily, his entire body shaking slightly with the movement and his stubby fingers gripping to his playing cards. John found it endearing and yet again felt that burst of thankful fondness, his mind at ease knowing these boys were the right ones. He took a note to ask Stamford about joining the GSA after lunch.

 

“Then we have James Sholto, member of the Officers’ Training Corps, and defense for the greatest rugby team in British history,” Greg announced enthusiastically, and James let out a loud laugh, shaking his light blonde head in amusement and grinning back at the boy.

 

“We’re not that good, lad,” James smirked, flinging a carrot at Greg’s head, before turning to John and lifting his hand in a quick wave.

 

John smiled his way.

 

Throwing the carrot back, Greg continued, “That sod there is Bill Murray, also a rugby star and the very king of ice-cream.”

 

Bill rolled his eyes and leaned back in his dining chair, lifting an exasperated hand and chuckling, glaring at Lestrade before facing John with an apologetic look, “My dad owns Murray’s Ice.”

 

John blinked, frowned and then instantly felt as his jaw dropped in awe. Christ, his sister loved that stuff, especially their signature popcorn butter and caramel supreme — they were known for their insanely ridiculous flavors, and were quite popular over the entirety of the United Kingdom; even more so in the United States, Americans crazy for odd mixtures and bizarre combinations.

 

Greg elbowed him in the side and smirked, “If you’re nice to ‘im, sometimes he’ll bring you shitloads of the stuff.”

 

Bill was the one tossing food now, which Greg Lestrade expertly dodged with a giddy smile. John felt his heart warm at the sight and shook his head in amusement, turning now to the last member of their table, a smaller boy with black hair and a wide grin, all teeth and blue eyes.

 

“And last, but certainly not least,” Greg snickered, using the hand not clutching cards, to point elegantly, “Carl Powers, Vice President of the debate club and fastest swimmer on Baker’s swim team.”

 

“Not the fastest, but I appreciate the uplifting introduction,” Carl beamed, accent far more posh than his own, before turning to John and lightly lifting his hand, which John shook pleasantly.

 

“So, John,” Greg added, turning in his seat to gaze brightly John’s way, all wide smiles and wide eyes, brows lifted curiously, “What shall we add to your name?”

 

“Sorry?” John chuckled softly, glancing at each of the other boy’s who were simply grinning his way, waiting expectantly for where Greg intended to go with his arbitrary question.

 

“Well, if you’re going to be a part of the gang, you need a proper introduction too,” Greg shrugged, turning back to his tray and taking a sip from his milk carton.

 

John fiddled with his own dinner tray and let out a soft laugh, chest clenching happily with the feeling of inclusion, the boy’s amongst him swarming him with a sensation of instant companionship.

 

“Well, I play rugby,” John stated, smiling as Greg, Bill and James lit up with intrigue, “and I’d love to be a part of the GSA, maybe even the debate team?”

 

The boy’s surrounding him cheered and hollered dramatically, John’s cheeks reddening as a few others across from them glanced over their shoulders and glared at the rambunctious bunch, rolling their eyes in annoyance. 

 

“I also collect vinyls,” John added with a smirk, and watched as the others blinked, arched a few brows, and then instantly grinned. It was something John felt necessary to express when it came to telling people who he was, what he did, what he liked. Music was everything to him; sitting those black discs where they belonged and listening to the melodies that sang out from the touch of a simple, single needle sent him reeling, heart and mind never more alive.

 

“That’s wicked cool, mate,” Bill gawked, jaw open wide and expression bright, “What sorts then?”

 

“Oldies, mostly,” John shrugged, licking his bottom lip, “The Smiths, The Kinks, George Micheal, Elton John. That sort.”

 

He startled a bit as Greg’s hand slapped down onto his shoulder and squeezed, the boy’s face stretched with enthusiasm and sincerity.

 

“Everybody meet John Watson,” the only slightly silver-haired boy announced to the group of boy’s all sat happily around their dining hall table, “rugby player with a knack for the classics and vinyl king.”

 

John beamed.

 

 

—

 

 

“Fucking stupid is what you are,” Victor spat out, yanking his black, uniform slacks on with vehement.

 

“Relax,” Sherlock sighed, pulling his bed sheets up to his shoulders and over his bare body in shame, heart thrumming rapidly in his chest and expression twisting into a wince at the sticky mess beneath the duvet.

 

“Relax?” Victor scoffed angrily, turning to Sherlock with wide, vicious eyes, a scowl in place across the entirety of his expression, “You forget to lock the fucking door and now you tell me to relax?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes before closing them, staring into the red swirl of darkness, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, “It’s not like anyone would have even come in anyway.”

 

Victor stormed over to the bed and shoved at his shoulder, rough and careless, so that Sherlock was no longer on his side, lying flat on his back instead, at full attention, his eyes opening slowly and twisting into a glare, the bright haired blonde above him snapping out, “But someone bloody could’ve.”

 

“But they didn’t so,” Sherlock muttered, brows arching, voice lifting slightly in mockery. The skinny brunette pulled himself from the sheets with a grimace and reached down to grab hold of his pants, sitting on the edge of the mattress and yanking them on before standing and wrapping this arms around himself insecurely. He made his way to his drawers, grabbing out one of his many button-down uniform-accepted shirts and unfolding it to slip his arms through, turning his body away from Victor’s sharp, unforgiving glare.

 

Just as he reached the top button, he felt Victor slide up behind him, those forceful, strong hands gripping tight, bruising, and he fell entirely still, body tense.

 

“Sometimes I think you’re trying to get us found out,” Victor growled in his ear, nipping at it lightly, his hands sliding up a bit more and yanking Sherlock’s back flush against his chest. The tall, thin curly-haired boy yelped in surprise before swallowing thickly, shutting his eyes and ignoring the tremble that made its way across his skin. 

 

“That better not be the case, Mr. Holmes,” Victor purred lightly, fingers suddenly digging in harder, so hard Sherlock could feel his nails pressing indentations into his skin.

 

“I thought you were hungry,” Sherlock swallowed, throat clenching, his breathing unsteady as he pulled away just slightly, lifting his arms once more to do up the last button.

 

Victor’s grip loosened momentarily before he yanked Sherlock’s hips hard enough to spin him around, their faces close and breaths intertwining, lust and irritation behind Victor’s dark eyes.

 

“The dining hall doesn’t close for another hour,” Victor smirked, leaning in close and biting at Sherlock’s neck, “We still have time for one more round. I can wait.”

 

Sherlock made a show of rolling his eyes and shoving Victor off, shaking his head in frustration and turning away and back to his wardrobe, pulling out a pair of black trousers and deliberately ignoring Victor’s deep frown.

 

“Well, I can’t,” Sherlock sighed softly, stepping into his slacks and keeping his head ducked and his line of sight low, his body turned defensively once more.

 

“You’re hungry? You’re never hungry.”

 

“Well, I am today.”

 

“That so?”

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and risked a glance over at the blonde boy behind him, taking in the wrinkles between his brows, angry lines that spoke of both irritation and hidden desire as Victor stood there, still as a statue, upper body bare, and jaw clenched tight.

 

With a dark smirk, Victor turned away and reached for his rumpled shirt and tie, left discarded on Sherlock’s dorm floor. Removing his eyes from the boy as he dressed, Sherlock sauntered over to his connecting washroom, stepping in front of the mirror and gazing blankly at his awful appearance. Hair a mess, eyes sunken in, lack of sleep obviously, limbs thin and lifeless, cheekbones sharp, lips all angular and — he whipped his head down and away, dropping his eyes to the sink, turning the faucet on and slapping cold water against his burning skin.

 

“Remember,” he heard Victor call from beside his bed, before he appeared at the door of his bathroom, staring predatorily at Sherlock’s shaky movements, “Wait at least twenty minutes before you leave, okay lovebird?”

 

“And hey,” Victor added as he made to move away, “Don’t eat too much.”

 

He then winked and flashed a grin, moving back from the door and sauntering towards the exit. Sherlock watched as he blew a mocking kiss and vanished, slipping outside of his dormitory.

 

Sherlock instantly let out a sigh of relief, unaware he’d been holding his breath, heart finally returning to its regular pace, eyes shutting in utter exhaustion. He lifted his still wet hands to his face and hid in the cool, damp darkness they provided.

 

—

 

“So, he proceeds to tell me that England doesn't have a kidney bank,” Greg spat out, eyes wide as he told his story, hands lifting and falling animatedly, “but it does have a Liverpool!”

 

John threw back his head in laughter, tears at the corners of his navy eyes as the boy’s around him cried out in amusement and glee, each of them riddled with giggles, cards long forgotten, food only half-touched.

 

“You’re all mouth and no trousers,” Mike snarled out playfully, shaking his head, declining to stoop so low as to believe the absurdity of his friend’s words.

 

“Seriously, mate?” Bill gawked, mouth hanging open, a chip in his hand, not quite reaching its designated area just yet.

 

Greg nodded his head and glanced at the group of them, smirking and shrugging his shoulders in his own disbelief, his story so very ridiculous even he had trouble believing it.

 

James shook his head, his brows lifting nearly to his hair line as he let out a long, exasperated breath, “Christ. Bloody Americans.”

 

Greg lifted a finger at him in agreement, and snatched up his milk carton for a sip, “Bent as a nine-bob note, if you ask me. The lot of them.”

 

John smiled and leaned back, scoffing in amusement before glancing up at the dwindling number of students populating the hall. Nearly eight meant dinner time was near finishing, and it seemed the only real people left were groups of amused friends, too busy chatting or wagging off to notice the time. He purses his lips to hide his fond smile, thinking of how he’d expected to sit, eat and head out as early as he possibly could, the daunting realization that he’d be all on his own far too overwhelming — but, obviously, that hadn’t been the case.

 

Just before he dropped his eyes and refocused on the next story Greg had begun prattling on about, John caught sight of a tall, thin figure speeding his way through and into the dining hall, pushing aside the entrance doors and slipping into the now empty dining line. John recognized him instantly — the boy of whom had sent his vinyls clattering to the floor. He took note of his ruffled curls and annoyed stance as he spoke animatedly to the ladies working the kitchen, clearly irritated with his last minute decision to eat. John admired the way he stood; tall and broad in his school uniform, far more casual than before, shirt untucked, tie loose, sweater vest vacant, and shoes seemingly sock-less. He studied the boy carefully as he swept past the elderly ladies working the line, grabbing simple things, a few chips and a water bottle the only thing sat atop his plate, and John frowned as he saw the boy blink down at his tray, as though deciding whether it were enough, before he turned to find an empty table in the large hall, which, of course, was no difficult leap.

 

He was startled from his spying by one of Greg’s straying fingers, jabbing him sharply in the side, a grin on his face as he watched John come back to himself.

 

“Where’d you get off to?” He teased before pulling back and snacking on the few remains left on his tray.

 

John smiled somewhat shyly at the group of them, all watching him with intent, before clearing his throat and lifting a discreet finger to the back of the mysterious boy’s head, “Who’s that?”

 

Greg frowned and followed his gesture, narrowing his eyes before freezing and arching a slow brow, ducking his head and swallowing thickly, “That’s Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Carl Powers, Mike Stamford, James Sholto, Bill Murray, and Greg Lestrade all went about awkwardly picking at their leftovers, keeping their eyes down and away, features distanced and guarded, expressions nearly blank.

 

John blinked in confusion, and lifted his gaze to the back of Sherlock’s head, curly locks swooping in waves of brown, “Odd name.”

 

Mike Stamford shrugged, “Well, apparently his real name’s William but he bloody hates when people use it.”

 

Carl leaned forwards, and the group followed, voices hushed now to a near whisper, “He’s completely bonkers. A right freak.”

 

John gaped, “What? Why?”

 

Greg rolled his eyes and chucked a kernel of leftover corn at Carl’s face, “He’s is not, you tit. He’s just clever.”

 

“Scary clever then,” Mike added.

 

“Clever my arse. He’s a total nutter,” James chipped in before taking a large sip from his water bottle.

 

John felt as though he were being torn in several different directions.

 

“Why, because he’s smarter than the lot of you combined?” Greg snorted, grinning wide and bright, pleased with himself.

 

“Oh, shut it, Lestrade,” Carl scoffed.

 

“Oi, don’t insult me! I didn’t even say anything,” Bill snapped out, hands lifting in faux surrender.

 

“He’s weird, admit it!” James growled at Greg, shaking his head in exasperation.

 

Mike looked sheepish.

 

John ducked his head and pursed his lips, running the information through his mind with frazzled perplexity. The boy — Sherlock — had seemed entirely intriguing to John, and yes, a touch rude, but not crazy. Nor freakish. Sherlock seemed both charming, yet untamable, terrifying yet graceful, sharp yet soft at the edges, so many different things in one, hidden behind unreadable eyes and chocolate curls.

 

“He does this thing,” Mike stated, cutting in through the chaos and redirecting John’s attention once more, “where he looks at you and instantly knows your life story.”

 

“Not instantly,” Greg rolled his eyes and pushed his tray away, turning in his seat to better face John, “He deduces things.”

 

“Deduces things?” John asked, frowning.

 

“Like, looks at you and picks up on all these creepy details,” Bill stated, finally becoming a proper part of the conversation.

 

“It’s neat, honestly,” Greg shrugged, “but yeah, a bit unnerving. He knew about Carl’s eczema and weak-arches just by looking at his shoes.”

 

John glanced at Carl, watching as he blushed and looked away, slouching in his seat.

 

“Knew my dad was gay before I did,” Mike huffed, laughing a bit nervously and pushing up his glasses.

 

“Said I’d been out snogging Jessica Hamm the night before and not my girlfriend,” Bill scoffed, gesturing wildly with his hands as though he had no clue where Sherlock had gotten that idea.

 

“Well,” Greg smirked, arching a brow, “Had you?”

 

Bill blinked and then scowled.

 

“Point is he’s an obtrusive arsehole,” James snapped, breaking the amused silence, “exposing people’s secrets regardless of what they are. Not a care in the world.”

 

“Oh, right,” Greg hummed, pointing at James Sholto thoughtfully, “He said you got rejected by Ezliabeth Cooper, didn’t he?”

 

“Shut up, Lestrade,” James spat out, tossing his fork at the boy in utter irritation, shaking his head at the nerve, and glancing away, crossing his arms over his chest sulkily.

 

John smirked at the lot of them, all entirely harmless, each of them simply gifted with big mouths and an adoration to talk. He glanced over at where Sherlock sat, alone, slouched, looking entirely exhausted — it brought a frown to John’s expression, brows furrowing. The temptation to get up and sit next to the boy was almost overwhelming — hell, Sherlock was alone and he wasn’t even new.

 

“I tried to get him to join the GSA once,” Mike muttered thoughtfully, humming lightly to himself as he pondered, “Regretted it right after.”

 

“How come?” John scoffed, more amused now than anything.

 

Mike shrugged, “He said he didn’t do clubs. And then he told me to lay off the blueberry scones.”

 

John couldn’t decide whether to lift his brows in revelation to the boy’s apparent outward honesty or wince at the insult.

 

“To be fair,” Greg murmured, “it was getting a bit excessive.”

 

“My parents were divorcing,” Mike argued, scowling, and it was the first time John had ever seen an angry teddy bear before, “It was stress eating, okay?”

 

With a shake of his head, John cleared his throat and shrugged a shoulder, “We ran into each other the other day. Literally. I knocked him flat on his arse.”

 

All eyes were on him now, and he felt his face turn red at the sight, glancing away nervously before biting the insides of his cheeks, his heart thrumming a little more rapidly in his chest.

 

“Right then, come on,” Greg beamed, scooting closer in interest,” What’d he deduce?”

 

“What?” John pursed his lips.

 

“What’d he deduce, you know,” Greg scoffed, turning to the others of whom were also leaned forward attentively, “about you?”

 

“He didn’t,” John stated, simply.

 

“What?” Mike frowned.

 

“He didn’t. I said sorry, introduced myself, he was pretty short with me, and then disappeared into his dorm.”

 

“No deductions?” James asked, brows arched and eyes wide.

 

“Not even a, ‘you’re new,’ or a, ‘lose some weight,’ or a, ‘feed your dog?’” Bill interrogated, expression blank aside from awe, “Nothing?”

 

John shook his head.

 

Every head turned to look at the boy across the large room, of whom was now gliding through the dining hall at a rapid pace, clearly finished with his meal and eager to leave. 

 

“Maybe he likes you,” Carl Powers snickered, winking at John and smirking a rather suggestive smirk.

 

John blushed and swallowed the knot blooming in his throat.

 

“Oh, cut it out, Powers,” Greg huffed, glaring at the black-haired boy with a scolding scowl, “John’s just yet to be on the receiving end of his — of his...”

 

“Weird skill,” Bill butted in.

 

“Party trick,” James uttered in addition.

 

“Yeah, alright — shut up,” Greg spat, before turning back to Carl and John, “his special talent, or whatever.”

 

John smiled wearily and nodded, his heart clenching in both anxiousness for that day and excitement.

 

“Besides,” Greg scoffed, reaching around John to smack Carl upside the head, messing up his perfectly gelled hair, “He’s got a boyfriend, you codfish.”

 

John watched as Carl glared momentarily before he turned to Greg in both surprise and curiosity, “He does?”

 

He hadn’t seen that coming.

 

“He might not,” Mike stated thoroughly, expression serious and adamant.

 

“Right, because he gives himself the hickey’s,” Bill chuckled sarcastically, rolling his eyes and smiling lazily alongside Lestrade.

 

“Obviously not,” Carl defended, “but no one’s seen the bloke. Maybe it’s a whole friends with benefits type deal, you know?”

 

“Lucky him, then,” Bill murmured to himself.

 

John blinked and glanced at the four of them, arching a brow, his mind whirling with all the new information. Christ — he felt more confused now than he had at the start. Just as John lifted his head to get another question in, hoping for a proper clear answer this time, the dining hall bell clanged loudly, the remaining students standing from their tables and tossing their trays effortlessly. John watched as the boy’s surrounding him gathered up their forgotten cards and handed them back to Stamford, turning, then, to dispose of their own leftovers.

 

John followed in their tracks, but lifted his head to gaze at the dining hall doors Sherlock had not long ago entered and exited through. So much mystery around one single person and John was entirely entranced. Sherlock Holmes was like the mystery novels John’s mother read to him as a kid — jam-packed with hidden romance and nervous interactions and action that served to take your mind through a loop of perplexity and obscurity. John was entirely prepared to purchase such a book.

 

“Meet up with us tomorrow morning at breakfast, yeah mate?” Greg turned to John, smiling at him whilst the rest of the group said their goodbyes through simple waves as they strolled lazily away.

 

“Sure,” John beamed, nodding his head.

 

Greg shot him a wink and turned to leave, striding slowly after his friends, hands in his pockets.

 

“Hey, Greg?” John called after him, turning with a small, shy smile.

 

Greg turned and arched a brow.

 

“Thank you,” John stated, bobbing his head in a grateful gesture, to which Greg Lestrade duplicated before spinning dramatically and making his way out of the dining hall.


End file.
